Untitled
by Scallywag
Summary: Days go by and I don’t even notice. I’m angry that I don’t notice, or more to the core of my irritation, I’m angry I don’t care to notice.
1. In battle

A/N: This isn't a story as such, more of a section from one really. I won't be writing anymore on this because I really can't think of anything that hasn't already been done. Though it doesn't mean I won't be writing at all and it doesn't mean I don't want reviews! I'm really only putting this up to see if I can still even string sentences together! I haven't been writing at all for the past..well this whole year really! So that's why I wrote this, I hope you enjoy.  
  
Disclaimer: Blah Blah Blah, you've heard it all before, so just for arguments sake lets pretend I do own them!  
  
Chapter One:  
  
Rain trickled down Hermione's tear streaked face and the cold chill of the wind broke against her back as she tried to shield Ron from the weather. Her blood stained hands cradled his head gently against her forearm as she tried to remove him from the heart of the battle. She abandoned all her attempts to shift Ron, as all opportunities appeared to be too risky. She had no choice but to stick it out with him in the middle of the most violent battle that was to change magical history.  
  
He squeezed her bleeding hand, she squeezed back. His cheeky school boy grin spread from ear to ear on his otherwise pained face. She admired that. His smile softened around the edges, his breathing reduced to a slower pace and his grip on Hermione's hand became weaker. Hermione's tears leaked over the tracks of which tears prior to them had followed and fell down onto his sunken shoulder. She violently rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and pulled Ron closer. She softly kissed his forehead and he smiled a little weaker this time. He squeezed her hand, his grip loosened, then he let go.  
  
PLEASE READ AND REVIEW!!!!! 


	2. Don't mention death

A/N: Oooooookkkkkkkkkkkk, well I know I said I wasn't going to continue, but I couldn't think of anything else and was eager to write something. This may not make sense to some, and if that's correct it would be helpful if I were told because then I can change it. Right now I'm still stuck for ideas on something else so I will probably continue this until I have an idea for a new story. I'd like to thank my only two reviewers: cinderella200 Eruantane I was grateful for your opinions last time and would like to hear what you have to say about this one.  
  
Disclaimer: Once again, as I have told you before, I own all the characters. lol. Yes it is I, J.K. Rowling in pathetic, illiterate teenage form.  
  
Chapter two:  
  
Hermione's reddened eyes glistened under the light of her dimly lit lantern as she continued to weep softly into her hands. It was the kind of weeping where only tears fell fluently from her eyes, no sound, no facial expression, only the tears running in an endless battle to consume one another. Her face, strained and pale, lay upon her pillow and her hands gently cradled her own head as she had done for Ron earlier that day.  
  
Sobbing didn't resolve much, for there was nothing to resolve. There was no relationship to be in. No relationship can exist if the alleged other half is dead and gone. There was no one to comfort, no one to cry with, no one to share the pain. There was no hope for resolution. Tears made their way from their creator to Hermione's jaw line. She did not wipe them away. There was nothing to hide.  
  
This was not a private pain. Personal, but not private. She was constantly smothered with people's condolences and "compassionate" words. They were more pity-induced conversations than acts of compassion. Every word was a mockery of what she and Ronald had shared. She didn't need them. Wiping away her tears would only imply she was ashamed of her pain. There was no shame in it.  
  
There was no shame in her tears for Ron, but there was plenty of shame in what she had recently contemplated doing. Her thoughts had been of nothing but mournful suicide since Ron had died. She saw it as a release, a way to let go and free her of the tragedy that she was bound to. But it was an easy get away, one of which she later decided would be a stupid sacrifice of everything that she was blessed with. She did want to forget, but not forever. Suicide was to permanent.  
  
After Ron had died, she made no attempt to get out. She wanted to stay, not for the company of course. She wanted to stay for the kill. As to whom she was to kill at the time had not occurred to her. Whether it had been death eaters, Voldermort, herself or Ron's memory she was not sure. But something had to die. In a way, something had. Her love for Ron remained, but her light hearted attitude that came with it had disintegrated and recklessness had taken its seat. Her unwashed blood stained hands were evidence enough towards her crushed partnership.  
  
All her life she had hidden from what felt right because she was afraid, To afraid to admit it, to afraid to give in. To afraid to let go of her pride and she seemed to find comfort in clinging to her unseen vulnerability. She wanted to be undetected emotionally and she felt her intelligence had compensated for her lack of revealed emotions. This had once been enough. But over time old theories are abandoned and new thoughts dominate until they run their course. She wasn't content with her solitude. She wasn't content with her loneliness, her denial of the natural human emotion to be wanted, or rather, needed. So at last, she gave in. She took all her pride and threw it out the window and risked her feelings despite the fact that if had she been thinking without impulse, her first thought would have been to protect rather than risk. She found what she lacked in Ron, held on and he promised not to let go. He had broken his promise.  
  
Her eyes, swollen, blood shot and sore continued to cry. Though this was painful, she did nothing to restrain them. What was the use of restraint? If she was going to cry, she might as well make it worth wild. Her tears were not in vain, this would bring Ronald back, this would make things right again, this would erase her hurt, at least in her mind. Her eyes wept, her body rested, her head lulled and she sobbed herself into hopeful oblivion.  
  
A/N: Hope you enjoyed please let me know what you think! 


	3. my blame

A/N: Ok, well I finally have found a place to go, with this next chapter that is. Not for the whole story. I never actually intended to write anymore than one chapter, so that's why this has little plot. Well, so far Ron has died, Hermonie is trying to get over his death and now she is comforting herself in this chapter by shutting out everybody else. Ok, not original, but it fits with the story so far.  
  
Disclaimer: No, no and no.  
  
Chapter Three:  
  
Solace and Solitude (In Hermonie's POV)  
  
I'm angry at a lot of things. He left me for one. I'm angry he's gone, I'm angry I'm here without him. I'm angry that that's something I'm going to have to go without for the rest of my life. I'm angry that I'm sad and I'm sad because I'm lonely.  
  
Days go by and I don't even notice. I'm angry that I don't notice, or more to the core of my irritation, I'm angry I don't care to notice.  
  
The sun rises, the sunsets and I'm still where I was the day he died. It's not that I'm not going forward, It's that I'm not moving at all. A step backward would be a movement, maybe not a good one, but I would at least be going somewhere.  
  
The more I stand still mentally the more physically I feel drained and the less emotion I can handle. I wish I were numb.  
  
People don't think to leave me alone. They say amongst one another: "She needs help, she needs comfort and she needs us."  
  
I don't need them. I don't need help or their comfort. I need solace, I need solitude, and they still don't understand. I sleep, I wake and they are still there. I talk and they answer. I take and they keep giving, I wish they'd stop giving.  
  
I still do all the usual daily things I did before, but apparently I'm fragile. I'm supposed to be handled with care, Because I'm incapable of caring for myself, or so they say.  
  
I feel guilty for something that still remains officially un-named. I have my thoughts as to what it is, guilt for my anger.  
  
Why I am angry isn't clear to me, and I think my guilt comes from not knowing. I'm used to knowing. I should know. I'm Hermonie Granger, I know everything. So why don't I know this?  
  
"Because it's not in a textbook, that's why."  
  
Ron said to me, "You always know the answer."  
  
He said, "You're always right"  
  
He told me, "Not to give up on things you know you will eventually understand."  
  
But Ron said a lot of things, and now he's dead, so what do they matter?  
  
Please Read and Review! 


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